


Fandom advent - 2017

by smoth



Category: Hat Films - Fandom, The Yogscast
Genre: Bakery AU, Ballet AU, Doctor Trott, Gen, Multi, Old Friends, cookies and coffee
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-07
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-11 20:33:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12943281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smoth/pseuds/smoth
Summary: No form to these, but all Christmas or winter themed, in some way.I'll try my best to do one for each day. Enjoy, and happy holidays!





	1. Cookie and coffee and an old friend

**Author's Note:**

> Remember the bakery AU? Me too.   
> Back when Kim first moved to the city, and finds her old friend.

The little, tucked away street by the library was all strung up for the Christmas season. Yellowish string lights were draped between branches of leaf-bare trees, and little stalls connected to cars selling coffees and pretzels were open all evening, with little radios playing the same Christmas songs. Winter made the sun retire early in the afternoon, so the moon shone overhead, clouded over by angrily grey cumulus. 

It was raining, and Kim was utterly lost. She’d been so certain he knew where she was going, but she must have gotten turned around somewhere, and her phone was dead. Her first day of work in a new city - even if it wasn’t too far from home - was a long one, and it had sucked up her battery life like a sweltering tourist with a straw to ice. This meant she couldn’t check a map, or even call someone who knew anything about roads. 

The rain was dripping down the back of her neck in the most uncomfortable way, and the first place that looked like she might be able to get a cup of coffee and plug her phone in was a well-lit little cafe sort-of-looking place. She ducked into it as soon as she saw it.

“Good evening, can I.. Kim?” The only person Kim saw when she walked in was a short, skinny man, with hair tied up and falling over his eyes, standing behind the full glass display case by the register. 

Chris Trott had been half of a friend during college, and secondary school. He was always the overachiever in every class she saw him in. He had always said about his aspiration to become some kind of chef, that he wouldn’t be at university because he wanted to have his own restaurant. Here he was. With an undercut and a heavy cardigan, and his own apron. 

Through his stare, he briefly disappeared into the back of the store through a little side door, before coming back a moment later with a towel. He came out to her, and closed the door behind her. 

“I haven’t seen you in ages.”

“Not since the leaver’s party at college.” Kim took the towel with a smile, wiped the water off the back of her neck and briskly toweled her soaked hair. “You really got your dream after all.” 

Trott grinned. “I said I would. Not to say it’s been easy.” He took the towel from her. “You can sit down without buying anything,” he continued, walking off behind the counter. “I can make hot chocolates or coffees, or the like. But it’s really a shame to come in here and not try a pastry or a dessert, since that is the entire premise.” He smiled to himself. 

“What do you recommend?” Kim asked. She put her bag down by a table, walked over to the display case, but couldn’t read the tags on each set of slices. She was nearsighted enough that she’d have to put her nose on the glass to read them without them - she didn’t bring her glasses today, out of a rush to get to work early. 

Trott poured coffee into a tall white mug, set it on a saucer, and put it down next to the register. He tugged a plate out from under the counter, and set it beside the saucer. 

“Depends on what you like. None of the cakes are conventional; there’s far too many interesting flavour combinations to stick to the basics. Do you still like dark chocolate?”

“Of course.”

“What about cherries?”

“My tastebuds will never change, Trott.” 

The baker laughed, and Kim barely missed the little flash of a tongue piercing behind his teeth. He reached into the back of the display case and placed a nearly black cookie onto the plate, beside her coffee. 

“You’ll hate me for giving you this as soon as it’s not in your mouth anymore.” 

Kim was intrigued enough to break a piece straight from the plate and popped it into her mouth - and made an embarrassing sound. The richness of the chocolate cookie studded with dark chocolate chunks made the tartness of the dried cherries pop.

“Oh my god.” She beamed at him. “This is amazing. Worth abandoning me in college, holy shit.” 

Trott laughed again. 


	2. Drizzle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Don't get a cold when you live with a doctor.

When it rained, and it did often in London, it could rain in one of three ways. The first way was a light drizzle that resembled mist more than rain, and turned the streets foggy and mysterious. A strange blend of green tinge that was supplied by the Thames, and yellow glows from the brightest of streetlamps shine through the fog, and anyone who was unfortunate enough to walk through it would become damp and irritable. 

 

The second type of rain was the kind that tapped politely on doors, windows and rooftops. This was the more suited rain. It watered the city and left it to shine in the daylight, adding a sheen to the pavements and buildings that no other rain could do. 

 

And then there was the  _ downpour _ . Torrential rain that was even less like rain and more like a sheet of water that was constantly dropping atop the city; rain that thoroughly soaked anyone who dared to try and walk through it, let alone try to go through it without an umbrella.    
  
Of course Smith had been caught out in the torrential downpour. With his ballet things slung over one shoulder, in a non branded sports bag, the man had been more than content to walk home, even with the threatening dark clouds hanging from the sky. But when the skies had suddenly opened onto the tall man, he had started to run. 

 

When he arrived back home at the flat, he'd banged on the door with a cold, balled up fist until his boyfriend had finally,  _ finally _ opened the door. By that point he was soaked to the bone, frozen, and unable to feel the tips of his fingers.    
  
"Christ alive," Trott stared up at Smith with wide eyes, quickly ushering the other into the - pleasantly warm -  building, and shutting the door behind him, the sound of the rain fading from a wet roar to a comforting rumble outside. The doctor pushed his glasses further up his nose. The ones with the golden rims, that Smith had picked for him, last year. There were indents where the little plastic plates of the specs had been resting on Trott's slender nose. He must have been studying before Smith got home. The shorter man’s voice took on an agitated edge: "You're bloody soaked - did you walk home again? I told you it was going to rain, you didn't even take a fucking umbrella with you-"   
  
"I'm usually fine in the light rain, mate," Smith replied, hanging up his bag at the door, along with his soaked jacket and shoes. “Need towel.” 

Smith started running up the stairs, teeth chattering.   
  
The dancer, once upstairs, had toweled off his hair, and had already started stretching again. Trott stood at the doorframe and fixed him with a stern look. Smith was still shivering as he pointed his toes. 

 

Trott turned so he was facing where Smith was looking toward. "You," He pointedly took off his glasses, then tucked them into his pocket before resting his hands on his hips. "Clothes off, and you're going to have a bath. Then food, medicine, and sleep. In that order.”

  
Smith looked back up at Chris with a face like a begging puppy, about to protest, before sneezing wetly, the violent motion making his damp curls flutter around his forehead. He was long overdue a haircut.   
  


“Make me better, Trott?”

  
Trott smiled. “Come on, then, you soggy cat.”   
  


\--- 

  
Trott knew it was coming; of course Smith would be like this in the morning. The doctor stood in the kitchen with pursed lips as he looked up to the ceiling, two mugs of tea gently steaming in front of him.

 

He heard the loud lurching from upstairs, in the bathroom. 

 

Brilliant. Smith was sick. But not sick enough to be quiet.  Chris stirred a little more sugar into his own mug of tea before he padded back to their room. Smith was back in bed, post-hurling and staring at the ceiling. His eyes rolled down to see Trott with the tea.   
  
The dancer looked exhausted, to say the least. Nausea had made his skin clammy and pale, making the huge dark circles under his eyes even more prominent. His normally tame curls were bunched up on one side and sitting at even more weird angles than usual, looking lank and lacklustre. His nose was shiny and red, his lips were parted so that he could breathe properly, all with the sheets bundled up like a cocoon.   
  
"You're a complete twat, you know that, right?"   
  
"Trott -  _ Chris _ , just-” Smith scrambled for proper sentences, “I need to be at the studio soon, we're rehearsing for-"   
  
"Alex  _ bloody _ Smith, you can't dance today. Your feet are black and blue, you're more stressed than I've  seen in months, years, and you have a cold.” He set down the mugs of tea, cooling off, on the beside table. “You're having some old fashioned bedrest.”   
  
Smith scoffed quietly, and Trott only responded by straightening his back, dark eyes stern.

 

"Yeah. Okay. Got it," He mumbled pathetically, reaching for the cup, encircling it in both hands before blowing at it, and taking a sip.   
  
"Good," Chris tried not to add ’boy’, and instead looked at Smith, holding onto his stern demeanour for a few more moments before he let out a huff and sat on the edge of the bed, tucking a loose curl behind Smith's ear and stroking his rosy cheek. 

 

“Don't worry, mate. You'll be back in the studio soon enough. Maybe even by tomorrow. For today, you can have a bath, have some good food, and sleep.” Trott sat on the edge of the mattress, cupping Smith's cheek. “Few years ago you'd jump at the idea of doing fuck all, all day.”

 

Smith did perk up a little at that. Trott raised his other hand to hold the taller man’s face in both hands. "But we're not going to do anything, you horny bastard. You're my patient, today, and I'm going to treat you as such.”   
  
"Thought that article about orgasms being the best cure for a headache was true, though, mate. Lots of good chemicals released in the brain.”   
  
"Which I know all about," Trott sighed. "But you're also tender from ballet. I've seen those feet of yours, and what you need today is rest, alright?" 

 

“Mhm.” Smith tried a weak smile. He hated staying home while there was something going on at the studio.

 

Trott kissed his forehead. 

 


	3. Get well soon, twat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 2 of day 2. Smith is disgusting.

  
The bath steamed gently as the doctor turned off the taps, running his hands through it to check it wasn't too hot before glancing up and smiling when he caught sight of Smith, lingering in the doorway with his  _ far too big _ hoodie exposing his collar, and a hangdog expression on his face. 

 

"Come here, sunshine," Trott sighed, gesturing with one hand until Smith wearily padded into the bathroom, looking half-dead already. "You are such a drama queen," Trott's complaint was soft as he tugged off Smith's jumper and letting it drop to the floor, followed by the ridiculous pair of neon coloured boxers. Trott smiled as he ran his hands down the other's warm sides, only to feel long fingers plucking at his shirt. 

 

"You're sick, Smith. I'm not about to get into the bath with you.”   
  
"What if I can't wash myself? What if I need some body heat from you?" Smith smiled as coyly as he could with a blocked nose, leaning in to kiss the other before Trott pulled back, and rolled his eyes.   
  
“Tempting offer.” Trott smiled as he wound his arms around the man's waist, only to guide him in the direction of the bath and smile as he climbed in. Smith had gotten sick a few times before this one, and it was always entertaining to see what he was like. Most of the time he just played the pathetic card, and relied on his doctor to fix him, which was a role that Trott was more than willing to fill, especially when Smith was so wonderfully affectionate towards him.   
  


So Trott helped him to bathe, washing his body and even soaping up his curls before washing him clean, helping him out of the bath and waiting with a towel. It was nice to see Smith subdued, really, to have that mind calmed for a few hours so that he could just rest. The next thing on Trott’s list was to get Smith to go back to bed, but when he mentioned that he had work to do Smith adamantly refused, and instead joined Trott in the living room. He drank tea, he insulted the people on the tv, and generally irritated Trott as he tapped away on his laptop. But that changed, when he felt kisses being pressed to the nape of his neck, and arms sliding from their blanket to wind around his waist.   
  
"Absolutely not. I'm not going to take advantage of my patient," Trott's voice was curt, but not unkind as he continued to type, making only one mistake when the other nibbled gently on his ear.   
  
"I'm not your patient now, I've been feeling a lot better, and I have done a lot more stretching during practice." Smith's voice thrummed gently in his ears as the man leaned closer, nosing at the back of Trott's head. Trott could feel a smile on the other's lips, and he sighed softly as he saved and turned away from the screen, looking up at Smith.

  
"You're so pushy.” He scoffed. “But, like I said, I don't want to get infected. Especially with such a bad cold, I'm a doctor for God's sa-" Trott's words were cut off as Smith kissed him, his eyes rolling until they shut as the man turned his chair, making it harder for Trott to turn away and complain he had work. When they both took a breather, Trott glared up at Smith, one hand already pressed to the man's chest. "Great. Now I'm going to have to gargle with antibacterial gel."   
  
"Worth it, though?" Smith grinned as he kissed Trott again, urging the other up off of the chair and down onto the sofa, leaving the both of them to sit up as he stroked a hand through Trott's short hair. Trott eventually gave in and let them kiss for a while, only to break it off and push a hand through Smith's still damp curls.   
  
"No more until you're better. Otherwise you'll stay sick for longer, and then who won't be able to dance next week?"   
  
At his words, Smith huffed and rolled his eyes, but instead of pushing his luck - as Trott thought he might just do - he shuffled a little closer and rested his head on Trott's chest, tugging a blanket around them as his eyes returned to the telly.   
  
"Then no more work for you," He muttered, curling up so that he was more or less on top of Trott, acting like a second blanket for the man. Trott did consider complaining and telling Smith that, no, he couldn't waste his day watching TV with Smith on his lap, but as he was opening his mouth Smith changed channels, and a Bond movie suddenly appeared on the screen. "Would you look at that?" Smith murmured softly, and Trott could practically hear the smirk on his lips as he draped an arm across the doctor's chest. Trott sighed, resting his hand on Smith's head and resting his arm across the other's shoulder.   
  
"You are in so much trouble right now,"   
  
"Good."


End file.
